


"A Tree and Some Boston Market" - A Supernatural Holiday Advent Calendar

by earz_wide_open



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Gen, There will probably be h/c too, Warning: Randomness, and other stuff, spoiler-free
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-20 04:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 14,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earz_wide_open/pseuds/earz_wide_open
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>NEW CHAPTER - Written for purple_carpets's Dean-centric h/c wish list at hoodie_time. Dean's hurt, high on painkillers, and mistakes Bobby for Santa Claus.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Yuletide can be an interesting time, especially if you're a Winchester.</p><p>A daily-updated collection of holiday ficlets of all moods and genres. Because I couldn't think of a better way to count down to Christmas!</p><p>(Mostly Dean-centric, with a lot of bro time, some Castiel, and the occasional Bobby).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Greensleeves

**Author's Note:**

> This collection is going to work exactly like a Christmas advent calendar; I'll post a new drabble or ficlet every day up to and including December 25th.
> 
> It's my first foray into writing for SPN! Greetings, SPN fandom; I'm glad to be coming aboard. :)
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I fully acknowledge that some of the holiday tropes in this collection have been written before in the fandom, by incredibly talented authors. I'm doing my damnedest to make my work as original as possible; any similarities between my fic and other fic are purely due to the fact that we're drawing from common themes. 
> 
> **On Spoilers and Timelines:** I'm going ahead and stating that all of these ficlets probably happen somewhere in Seasons 1 through 5. However, the stories themselves exist in a tight vacuum, especially because they're so short. So they're pure fun and pretty much 100% spoiler-free!

 

 

**_December 1st - Greensleeves_ **

 

“Dean.”  
  
“Yeah, Cas?”  
  
They were all sitting in the Impala on the edge of the highway waiting out a snow storm. Cas could’ve left a long time ago but he hadn’t. The snow gathered in sparkling clusters on the windshield and made the gray world outside look like a painting. The pale light of the radio glinted off the dark leather seats. The only music cutting through the storm was from some weird classical station.  
  
“Dean – what is this song?” Castiel asked.  
  
“Hell if I know. It’s a little creepy if you ask me.”  
  
“It’s ‘Greensleeves,’” said Sam.  
  
“ _What_ sleeves?”  
  
“‘Greensleeves.’ It’s an English folk song that dates all the way back to the Middle Ages. But it was used as the tune for a few turn-of-the-century Christmas songs.”  
  
Dean raised his eyebrows.  
  
“Fair enough, Encyclopedia Brown. Damn depressing for Christmas song, though.” He turned his head around to face the back seat. “So now you know, Cas. Ya happy?”  
  
Cas was staring out of the car with his brow furrowed. Dean didn’t know whether it was an effect of the snowflakes on the window, but he could have sworn the angel’s eyes looked wetter than usual.  
  
Voice as quiet as the falling snow, Cas said: "It's beautiful."  
  
Dean supposed it was.


	2. Cookies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's gonna get coal in his stocking after this. Probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I fully acknowledge that some of the holiday tropes in this collection have been written before in the fandom, by incredibly talented authors. I'm doing my damnedest to make my work as original as possible; any similarities between my fic and other fic are purely due to the fact that we're drawing from common themes.
> 
> **On Spoilers and Timelines:** I'm going ahead and stating that all of these ficlets probably happen somewhere in Seasons 1 through 5. However, the stories themselves exist in a tight vacuum, especially because they're so short. So they're pure fun and pretty much 100% spoiler-free!

 

_**December 2nd - Cookies** _

 

“You idjits are damn lucky I keep a fire extinguisher around.”  
  
“Yyyyyyeah...” said Sam, staring at the ground intermittently. “Sorry your kitchen’s all foamy now, Bobby.”  
  
Foamy was an understatement. Between that and the smoke hanging in the air, not even Mr. Clean himself could’ve patched up the mess.  
  
“What on God’s green Earth were y’all trying to make, anyway?”  
  
Dean snorted. “There’s no ‘y’all,’ this one was all Sammy. And for the record I told him it was a stupid idea.”  
  
“Yeah,” countered Sam, “well let’s see you do better baking. You _burn_ instant ramen, Dean!”  
  
Dean leaned against the sooty countertop with his arms crossed. “Hey, I’m not saying I would’ve done better at it; I’m saying I wouldn’t have had the bright idea of using Bobby’s oven to make freaking  _Christmas_ cookies in the first place.”  
  
Bobby looked stunned.  
  
“ _Cookies?_ ” he asked. “There’s been squat in my fridge for ages except beer and leftover takeout. So unless you whipped up some beer-flavored snickerdoodles...”  
  
“No no, I found some of those Pillsbury break ‘n’ bake cookies in the bottom drawer,” Sam said.  
  
Dean grabbed a dish rag, shook the ash off of it, and used it to extract the ruined cookie sheet from the gaping foamy mouth of the oven.   
  
“Sam...?” Dean said, getting a better look at the mostly-blackened chips on the sheet. “Sam – is that a picture of a cartoon _ghost_ on one of them?”  
  
“Okay,” said Sam, shifting his feet, “so maybe they’re from Halloween...”  
  
“Try _last_ year’s Halloween,” grunted Bobby.  
  
“Aw, _dude_ ,” said Dean, scrunching his face up. “That’s just wrong.”  
  
“The one time I try to be festive...” muttered Sam under his breath.  
  
“Well, at least now I know what I want for Christmas,” said Bobby. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “A new kitchen, courtesy of Sam Winchester.”  
  
Dean never said anything about it, but he was kinda disappointed to have to trash the cookies.  
  
Also, beer-flavored snickerdoodles actually sounded delicious.


	3. Black Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys participate in Black Friday... sort of. They don't come away unscathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 2 A.M. where I am... that means it's officially December 3rd and time for an update!
> 
> Please see the previous chapters for a **disclaimer** for other fic writers and a note on **spoilers** , or the lack thereof.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

_**December 3rd - Black Friday** _

 

“Most ridiculous job we’ve ever worked,” said Dean.  
  
 _“What!?”_ Sam yelled, straining to hear his older brother through the gauze in his ears.  
  
 _“Most ridiculous job we’ve ever worked, eh, Helen Keller!?”_  
  
“Jerk!”  
  
“Yeah well, bite me,” said Dean with a half hearted grin. “Come on, though, you gotta admit it was insane.”  
  
“Can’t argue with you there!” yelled Sam. “If I never see another KitchenAid upright mixer again in my life, that’s fine by me... at least the haunted ones, that is.”  
  
Dean stared down at his thickly bandaged hands in amazement.  
  
“I can’t believe I got my palms burnt off by a friggin’ half-price _waffle iron_ ,” he said.  
  
“A what!?”  
  
“Forget it.”  
  
Sammy’d had his eardrums blown out by a bargain stereo system. No way it was worth trying to communicate with the guy.  
  
Come to think of it, it was probably dangerous for a borderline-deaf dude to be driving the Impala. Dean didn’t really have a choice, though – you can’t exactly hold a steering wheel without any palm skin.  
  
Besides, he’d wanted to get the hell out of Dodge the instant they’d wrapped up the case and taken care of their injuries. It had been hard enough to work a last-minute job in the middle of a giant suburban Wal-Mart at 4 A.M. in throngs of rabid Black Friday shoppers. The fact that the job was extracting the angry spirit of an employee who had been literally trampled to death by crowds _last_ Black Friday and had started possessing the merchandise – that was just the cherry on top.  
  
In the driver’s seat, Sam suddenly snorted with laughter. Dean was ready to chalk it up to the morphine he’d taken for his ears, but that didn’t make it any less annoying.  
  
“Something funny?” asked Dean, voice gruff from the pain in his hands and the lack of caffeine in his bloodstream.  
  
“I just...” said Sam, stifling another giggle, “I’m sorry – I just can’t stop picturing all those ‘People of Wal-Mart’ running from those possessed Wiis... There were hundreds of them...”  
  
“Hundreds of Wiis or hundreds of people?”  
  
Sam clenched his lips together to dam up the laughter.  
  
“Both...” he squeaked.  
  
Dean sighed heavily and turned on the radio as sturdily as his scorched-off palms would allow.  
  
A commercial for Best Buy’s Black Friday camcorder deals was playing.  
  
If it wasn’t gonna cause him excruciating pain, Dean would have turned the radio off with his fist.


	4. 'Snow Joke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets a frightened and desperate call from Cas. The end result is... a little anticlimactic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the earlier chapters for a **disclaimer** for other authors and a note on **spoilers** , or the lack thereof.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

_**December 4th - 'Snow Joke** _

 

Dean’s phone rang at 8 A.M. He would’ve been mostly cool with that had he not spent the night doing shots of Rumple Minze at a dive bar called – mysteriously – Flapjacks.  
  
He couldn’t open his eyes. He knew that if he opened his eyes he was in for a world of hangover-induced hurt. Damn, he was starting to hate his ringtone.  
  
Still, Dean knew better than to leave the phone buzzing on the motel nightstand. The job was the job, and if the job called you pretty much always picked up. ‘Sides, Sam would start throwing pillows at his head soon if he didn’t answer it.  
  
So he tried as hard as he could to keep his eyes shut, groped for the phone with an outstretched hand, and pulled it under the covers.  
  
The caller I.D. said “Cas.” Dean willed the phone to stop ringing with every fibre of his being. It didn’t stop. Dean flipped it open.  
  
“Cas?” he croaked.  
  
“Dean, there’s something terribly wrong. There’s a park at the corner of Arnold Street and Westbridge Drive, in a town called Bozeman. It’s not far from you. Meet me there.”  
  
“Cas–”  
  
The line was dead.  
  
“Rise ‘n’ shine, Sammy,” Dean growled a few minutes and half a bottle of aspirin later. “Cas is probably bleedin’ out in the snow somewhere and I’m not trying to gank what got him alone.”  
  
“I hate you,” said Sam, his face buried in a pillow.  
  
They arrived at the snow-coated park in under an hour. Dean marched toward the tawny speck of trenchcoat he saw sticking out against the white ground. He was both pissed and relieved to find that the angel was standing upright, seemingly in one piece.  
  
Something certainly was up, though – because Cas was staring at the powdery ground looking scared shitless.  
  
“So...” said Dean. “You wanna tell us what’s goin’ on?”  
  
“It’s... utterly dreadful,” said Cas, eyes still glued to the snow.  
  
“What is, Cas?” asked Sam.  
  
“Whoever is doing this must... They must have found a new way to kill them...”  
  
“Woah woah woah,” said Dean. “Who’s killing _who_ now?”  
  
“Just _look_ at it, Dean!” said Cas, sounding more and more desperate, gesturing at the ground. “So many... So many of my brothers and sisters slain... And I’ve never seen it done like _this_.”  
  
Dean took a good look at Castiel’s face, studied the ground a bit more carefully...  
  
And he let out a giant guffaw of laughter.  
  
“How can this be funny to you...?” Cas asked, his face screwed up in disbelief.  
  
“Cas, man...” Dean choked through the laughter. “Cas... Aw, Sammy, you gotta tell him, I can’t keep it together...”  
  
Sam sighed.  
  
“Castiel,” he said, pointing at the wing-shaped patterns on the ground, “those are snow angels.”

 


	5. You'll Shoot Your Eye Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas movies can really mess with your head. Dean learns it the hard way during his first holiday season without Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see my earlier chapters for a **disclaimer** for other authors and a note on **spoilers** , or the lack thereof.
> 
> This one's a shout out to [elfgirljen](http://elfgirljen.livejournal.com/) over at [hoodie_time](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/), who asked for a Dean-centric angsty holiday fic about Dean's first Christmas away from Sam. Glad I could help fill your wish, love! :)
> 
> Enjoy!

  _ **December 5th – You'll Shoot Your Eye Out**_  


 

The TV at the motel was playing a Christmas movie. Dean looked at his watch. The tiny date-indicating LEDs read "12/5".  
  
December 5th. So it was that time of year again, after all.  
  
Usually Dean noticed the coming holidays. The occasional wreath on a farmhouse door; the lights strung up on small-town lampposts to hide their chipping paint; the emergence of little fluffy Santa dresses and black leather boots at strip clubs. Christmas – like apple pie, fireworks, and obesity – was pretty unavoidable in the States.  
  
But this year was a tad different. Sammy was off at college, John had dragged his older son into a job way off the grid, and – as these crazy, off-the-grid jobs sometimes went – the hunters were "laying low."  
  
Not that Sammy being at college mattered that much in terms of whether Dean thought about Christmas... But he could admit to himself, here in the dark with holiday Americana shining from the TV like a lonely light coming from an upstairs window... He could admit that Sam being at college was on his mind a good deal.  
  
Tonight John was out on recon and had left Dean to "hold down the fort" at the motel, which basically meant beer and TV until the crack of dawn. The movie on the TV was "A Christmas Story." Dean had seen most of it at one point or another, in bits and pieces on different TVs in different motel rooms here and there. He'd seen at least enough of it to know that it was about a kid who wanted a toy gun for Christmas. And everyone told the kid that he was nuts, that guns were dangerous, that he would... what was the choice phrase? Oh yeah – that he would "shoot his eye out."  
  
And so the kid went through the various ups and downs that a kid goes through when he wants something he can't get. And most of the ups and downs were funny in a bittersweet, slice-of-life sort of way, guided by the voice of that wry adult narrator who looks back on his childhood self and somehow finds a story worth telling.  
  
All the romps and adventures with bullies and mall Santas and frozen flagpoles were as good as any Christmas flick Dean had ever seen – but Dean could never make it to the end of the movie. When he and Sam watched it every odd year, Dean saw the end coming – saw Ralphie come down the stairs in his bunny suit, saw Ralphie's kid brother unwrap his silver blimp...  
  
And then Dean would yawn, or get up to take a leak, or make some excuse to get Sam to turn the tube off – because he couldn't watch any more.  
  
At the end of "A Christmas Story," it turns out the kid's dad caves and gets him the gun anyway – because what dad doesn't wanna make his kid happy? What dad doesn't want his kid to like him? And what dad doesn't remember having a toy gun when _he_ was a kid? How old was the kid in the movie, huh? Nine years? Ten?  
  
When Dean was nine years old like the kid in the movie, _his_ dad took him out to a field in the middle of nowhere on Christmas morning. John took Dean out to that field, nailed some paper targets onto trees, put a real shotgun in his son's hands, and told him to shoot like his life depended on it.  
  
Dean's very first gun wasn't "The Official Red Ryder, Carbine Action, Two-Hundred Shot Range Model Air Rifle."  
  
Dean's very first gun was a sawed-off shotgun that he made with his own hands when he was twelve.  
  
This year, this December 5th, Dean wound up watching the end of "A Christmas Story." Sam wasn't there; there was no one to turn the TV off.  
  
Dean had crushed his beer can in his fist by the time the credits rolled.


	6. Ballin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Really, it was the absence of porn that had prompted Dean to teach Cas the art of snowball making. The fight itself... that was all Sam's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see chapter 1 or 2 for a **disclaimer** for other writers, and a note on **spoilers** , or the lack thereof.
> 
>  **WARNING** for some heavy language later on the chapter... Dean is, well, Dean. ;)
> 
> Enjoy!

**_December 6th - Ballin'_ **

  
"Pack it real tight, Cas... Oh,  _come on_ , Sammy, I meant the damn  _snowball_ _!_  Get your mind outta the gutter. Jesus."  
  
Sam grinned and held his hands up in mock submission, his laughter making little clouds in front of his mouth. "Hey, whatever. You're the one directing this porno, apparently."  
    
"Yeah, real funny, bitch."  
  
"I thought these so-called 'pornos' had to involve pizza in some way..." Cas mused, frowning at the pile of snow in his hands.   
  
"Only the best ones do," said Dean, gathering up a heap of the white stuff for himself.   
  
"Who's mind's in the gutter now?" said Sam under his breath.   
  
"Hey, I heard that," growled Dean. "Don't make my snowball-throwing hand open up a can of whoop-ass on you prematurely."  
  
"A can of..." said Cas with a tilt of his head.  
  
"Never mind, keep making your snowball."  
  
Dean had no idea what had made him propose the impromptu snow-balling lesson. Probably boredom. And lack of alcohol. Or women. (One can only sneak out to the Impala at the motel and flip through the latest "Busty Asian Beauties" mag so many times a night). And so Dean had called Castiel, who had happened to be a tad bored as well ("I've been in the Heaven of an earthworm, just watching... the dirt."), and they had all taken a trip to the nearest abandoned nature preserve to let off some steam.   
  
The brothers had already asked Cas at least three times if he wanted to borrow their extra pair of gloves, but the angel had insisted he didn't need them. Castiel's palms looked a little rosy as they handled the snow, but it didn't seem like Jimmy Novak's hands would be dropping off any time soon.  
  
Within minutes, both Sam and Dean had nice piles of snowballs going. Dean was about to brush the extra powder off his gloves and call everyone in for a pre-fight huddle, but he realized Cas might need a little extra time.  
  
"Cas," said Dean, "do you only have one ball?"  
  
Castiel aimed a very grave stare at Dean.  
  
"I am fairly certain," the angel said, "that Jimmy Novak's body has not one, but two testes."  
  
Sam nearly lost it laughing. Dean sighed and rubbed at the space between his eyes.  
  
"No, dude," Dean said. "I mean, did you only make one  _snow_ ball."  
  
"Oh," said Castiel, "yes, I did make only one." His chest puffing up with something like pride, Cas regarded the white sphere in his cupped hands.  
  
And that was exactly what it was – a perfect  _sphere_. From what Dean could tell, Castiel had packed and smoothed his snowball into cosmically good condition. It looked way more like a shining white arcade skee ball than any snowball Dean had ever seen. Still – anyone who only brought one snowball to a snowball fight stood... well... a snowball's chance of winning.  
  
When Dean told Castiel as much, the angel glared at Dean like his dignity had been wounded.  
  
"An angel of the Lord," said Cas, "does not need more than one weapon to win a battle. Victory for us is rarely ever numbers unless we're fighting against our own; it's all about resourcefulness and tact."  
  
Dean shrugged. "'Kay then, winged Yoda. May the force be with you." He turned around and prepared to hurl a snowball at the back of Sammy's neck, but Cas materialized abruptly right in front of him.  
  
"Dean," said Cas, looking pretty concerned even for an angel, "I'm ambivalent about this fight. I don't want to hurt you. Or Sam."  
  
"Dude," Dean laughed, "It's a snowball fight. It's chunks of half-frozen water. People get hit everywhere with these, in the face, wherever. You have my full permission to hurl that son of a bitch as hard as you can."  
  
"Are you certain?" Cas asked.  
  
"Scout's honor."  
  
"Okay," sighed Cas. "I feel slightly reassured. I suppose I'll have to get used to the idea of slinging frozen balls at your face."  
  
" _Yeah_  you will," said a tiny, mirthful voice right behind Dean.  
  
The older hunter whipped around and jammed his snowball into Sam's face as hard as he possibly could.  
  
Sam spluttered, laughed, and followed up with a volley of his own snowballs. Dean threw another one back. They both ran for their piles. Castiel observed, tense, prepared, waiting for the right time to strike. The air was filled with flecks of white as the hunters volleyed back and forth, hitting, missing but mostly hitting, laughing, taunting, swearing, tripping, their feet crunching over the powdery earth. Snowballs flew left, right, in massive arcs and straight lines, whizzing, exploding...  
  
Dean seized the moment, cocked his elbow back, and whipped a snowball at Castiel's face as hard as he possible could.  
  
Castiel caught the cold clump right in front of his own nose without blinking, and before Dean had time to think, the white skee ball was shooting towards him at the speed of sound and–  
  
"AAAAAAUGUGGHH!"  
  
Dean, suddenly finding himself twisted up on the ground, wondered if that had been  _his_  own scream. The world looked white, and not just because of the snow. His hands were clamped over his left side by his stomach, and only it took him a couple seconds to realize why.  
  
"Mother  _fucker!_ " Dean gasped, tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes as the pain caught up to him. "Aw, son of a  _bitch-ass_  motherfuckingcocksucking Jesus Mary Oprah Jiminy  _fucking_  Christmas..."  
  
He heard Castiel's voice asking, "Sam, is he casting some sort of spell?"  
  
"Dean– Dean!" yelled Sam, who had run to his brother's side when he saw Dean wasn't getting up. "Hey hey, Dean, what is it, is it your side?"  
  
"No Sammy, it's my  _god damn vagina_ ," Dean rasped. "Whaddoyou think, of course it's my side... Ohhh, hot  _damn_ I'm dying..."  
  
"Castiel, what did you do to him?" said Sam.  
  
Dan squinted up and noticed through the searing pain that Cas looked pretty guilty. Good.  
  
"I warned him about my fighting abilities," said Castiel somberly. "The snowball I packed was incredibly dense; in Earth measurements it probably weighed about twenty pounds, give or take."  
  
"Give or take my  _ass_ ," growled Dean through clenched teeth. "Aw, this feels... Aw god, something's not right..."  
  
"Be still, Dean," said Cas quietly, "I can fix this." Dean felt Castiel's hand on his shoulder, turning him onto his back, and the hand was so gentle Dean wondered how it could have possibly hurled a twenty pound orb into his gut a few moments ago.  
  
"If we ever snowball fight again for some reason," said Sam, "Castiel gets to be on my team."  
  
"But I'm older–" croaked Dean.  
  
"Nope," said Sam. "Dibs. Now hey, just take it easy so Cas can do his thing."  
  
Dean nodded.  
  
As it turned out, Castiel's Christmas present to Dean that year was a new spleen. Which was fine by Dean; he'd been getting tired of his old one, anyway.


	7. Bad Santa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean thinks he and Sam should do something for cash besides hustling pool. Sam thinks no amount of money is worth wearing green tights for a whole weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see chapter 1 or 2 for a **disclaimer** for other authors and a note on **spoilers** , or the lack thereof.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

**_December 7th – Bad Santa_ **

  
"This idea is terrible, Dean."

"Man, if I had a dime for every time you said that  _right before_ I made an  _awesome_ decision..."

"First of all, if that were true you'd be broke," said Sam. "More importantly, this plan just isn't gonna work like it did in 'Bad Santa.'"

"Why?" asked Dean, adjusting the fur caps on his boots, "Because you're not a midget?"

"They're called 'little people,' Dean. And it doesn't matter whether I'm a midg– a little person or not.  _No one_  in this department store is gonna buy that I'm an elf."

Dean threw up his red-sleeved hands. "Well it doesn't matter now, Sammy, they hired us! I'm the jolly bearded guy and you're my menial worker... who wears tights. We let a couple bratty kids wipe their boogers on us for a weekend, and then when they shut down the place we hang back and rob it blind. (All in the spirit of Christmas, of course). So what if you're not exactly elf material? I mean, jeez, it should be no one in this mall's problem that you're so damn freakishly tall."

"Thanks," said Sam bitterly, itching at his bright green tights. (Tights, why did it have to be  _tights?_ ) "You're right in one respect, Dean; I could never be Santa."

"Well, yeah, 'cause I'm the older one and I thought of this plan and I get to be Santa, that's how it goes." Dean grinned. "Elf shuts his cakehole."

"No," said Sam, smiling, "I was gonna say I could never be Santa 'cause I'm not  _fat_  like you."

"Woah woah woah," said Dean. He grabbed a fistful of his fake belly through the costume. "That was a low blow, man, this is  _all_  pillow... And, okay, maybe like  _one_  percent food baby from that pizza joint I hit up at lunch..."

"Fatass."

"Elf bitch."

"Lard boy."

"Hey, the ladies don't exactly go for 'strapping young lads' in green tights, either."

"...Tubby."

"You know what," said Dean, yanking up his beard, "we're gonna make this interesting. First of us to bag a chick  _in costume_  gets to use a cut of the take for whatever they want."

"Fine."

"Fine!"

* * *

Nine hours later, Dean sat in the motel room nursing a bottle of whiskey and trying to scrub some kid's chocolate ice cream out of his Santa suit. Sammy had taken the car out and hadn't come back yet, which probably meant he'd gotten the sudden urge to go the public library or something. Dean was normally leery about Sam handling his baby, but the kid had seemed more insistent than usual... and weirdly happy...  
  
Dean's phone buzzed. Picture message. Hm.  
  
One look at the message and Dean nearly spit out his mouthful of whiskey. There was Sam,  _still_  dressed in that stupid hat with the damn jingle bell on the end of it, being caressed by multiple (acceptably attractive) women.   
  
The text caption under the pic read:  _"Ho ho ho, fatty. And by 'ho,' I don't mean the sound Santa makes when he laughs."_  
  
"Son of bitch," said Dean, and he took another shot.

 

* * *

When it was all over, the hunters got as far away from that mall as they could. There wasn't really another sane choice; they had, as Dean had predicted, robbed the place blind.

"I still don't know how I feel about robbing malls," said Sam on the car ride to South Dakota.  
  
"What's done is done. Besides, the take was unreal."  
  
"Can't argue with you there. I'm glad I got enough money out of the bet to get you a little extra something, too."  
  
"Oh yeah," said Dean, rolling his eyes, "I just adore my gift, Sammy."  
  
"You should," said Sam. "How many other guys can say they have a  _framed_  picture of themselves dressed as Santa with a two year old kid projectile vomiting into their Santa beard?"  
  
Dean hoped to god that if there was a real Santa, he at least did himself a favor and got wasted once in a while.


	8. Candy Canes and Cough Drops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately for Dean, the Christmas season and the flu season overlap. Sam is just looking for a way to keep his sick brother's spirits up. Sick!Dean, nosy!caring!Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see chapters 1 or 2 for a **disclaimer** for other authors and a note on **spoilers** , or the lack thereof.
> 
> This chap's longer than usual. You might say sick!Dean is a weakness of mine. ;)
> 
> Enjoy!

 

**_December 8th – Candy Canes and Cough Drops_ **

 

Outside a beat-up Iowa gas station, the first snow of the year was falling. 

Really, it was more like the first slush of the year was slushing. The sky was gray and murky, and all the wet clods falling through the air were forming piles of mush on the side of the road. Dean was hunkered down in the driver's seat, tapping his fingers listlessly on the window ledge to some light listening ("Master of Puppets"), waiting for Sam to return so they could hit the road again.

And there was Big Bird now, carrying a styrofoam cup of coffee (Dean's), another cup with a little tea string sticking out from under the lid (Sam's), and a thin, colored cardboard box.

Dean couldn't help but notice that none of these things were the pie he'd asked for.

Sam entered the Impala with a rush of cold air and handed Dean his coffee. Dean felt warmth bleed into his frigid palm through the styrofoam. It still didn't fix the lack of pie.

"What's  _that_  look for?" asked Sam.

"You know damn–" Dean paused to clear his throat. "You know damn well what it's for."

"Well if you wanted pie, you should've come into the gas station and bought it yourself. I keep telling you I'm not your errand boy."

"Sure y'are, bitch," said Dean, but whatever was jammed in his throat prevented him from lending the insult its usual punch. 

Dean would never have made the effort to enter gas station anyway, not today. He felt weirdly heavy, like the crap falling from the sky had dug its way into his body. Nothing a couple swigs of decent booze and a nap couldn't fix, but still not worth getting out of the Impala and into the slush.

Sam held out the colored box he'd brought with him. "Candy cane?" he asked.

Dean squinted at his younger brother. "I thought you weren't into all that Christmas crap."

"You say that to me every year, you know," said Sam with a thin smile. "People can change."

"Fair enough. Are there different flavors or..."

"If you wanna know whether there's a pie flavored candy cane in there, there isn't."

"Ah, what the hell, just gimme one anyway," said Dean. Maybe sucking on it would do something for his throat. 

The peppermint coated his throat a little, but it wasn't doing squat for the cloudy heaviness in his bones. Side effect of winter, he supposed. He put his coffee in the cupholder and settled in for a long drive.

* * *

  
"You okay?" said Sam.

"Why wouldn't I be?" asked Dean.

"You're being pretty quiet."

Dean shrugged. "Since when am I Chatty Cathy on the road?"

"I dunno... You haven't asked me anything about the case. Usually you wanna know."

"Fine," said Dean, swallowing around the growing lump in his gullet. "Lay it on me."

"Three women dead in one town, all in a matter of days. They all died sitting inches from their TV sets. But that's not even the weird part–"

_"Hhhtchoo!"_

Sam stared at Dean, who was preoccupied with wiping snot from under his nose.  
 _  
_"Uh..." said Sam, "Gesundheit?"  
 _  
_"That was not a sneeze," said Dean. "That was a forceful, _manly_ exhale... ah... ah...  _CHOOFF!_ "  
 __  
"Dude, gross," said Sam.  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry," growled Dean, "apparently I can't sneeze in my own friggin' car now."

"So it  _was_ a sneeze..."

"Yeah, whatever, Sherlock."

"You sure you're feeling okay...?"

"No, Sam, I'm not. As it turns out, I'm allergic to you," said Dean with a slight eye roll. His felt the beginnings of a headache coming on and fought the urge to pinch his nosebridge. "Yes," he continued, "I'm fine. Now what about the rest of the case?"

Dean was pretty sure it was getting colder in the car. Dusk was coming; the cold made sense. While Sam talked, Dean reached out an oddly shaky hand and cranked the heat up.

* * *

  
By nightfall Dean was sure that the heat in the car was broken. He doubted he'd sense any temperature difference if he stepped outside.

He slammed his palm onto the dashboard to try and dislodge whatever was stopping up the vent.

"Dean, what are you doing?" Sam asked, roused from a light sleep by the smack of Dean's hand on the dash.

"Damn heat's busted," Dean muttered, clamping his teeth shut so they wouldn't chatter.

"Are you serious?" said Sam incredulously. "I was just about to say we should crack a window and get a little cool air in here. It's like a sauna, man."

"Speak for yourself," said Dean. It came out as a strangled croak instead of a coherent sentence. 

"Woah," said Sam with a slight chuckle. "When did you turn into Batman?"

"I've always been Batma... ah...  _CHHFFF!_ "

"Sounds like," said Sam, "Batman's getting a Bat-manflu."

"Not likely," said Dean – but even as he said it, little knifey stabs of pain flickered across his tonsils. 

For the first time since they'd left the gas station, Dean allowed the thought of actual illness to cross his mind. He supposed it was possible; he couldn't keep blaming the weather and the car for everything. It wouldn't do Sammy any good to have to go the case alone, though. So Dean pushed back the tingling in his nose and the pounding in his head and focused his eyes on the road. Mind over matter.

* * *

  
"Mind over matter" didn't turn out to be the best mantra.

As he drove, it was getting harder and harder for Dean to ignore the glass-sharp pain in his throat and the lumpy throbs in his skull. Thick aches travelled in waves from his neck to his tailbone. He kept gripping the wheel tighter to stop his hands from shaking, which was hard to do considering he felt as weak as an overcooked noodle. And to top it all off, his guts had started to seriously reconsider whether they were really all that attached to his dinner.

And... Holy crap, the street lights on the side of road were so damn bright... When did they get so damn bright...

The Impala hit a pothole.

Dean's stomach took the bump as a signal that it was okay to let go of its contents. He slammed on the breaks and barely, just barely kept the rising bile from redecorating the dashboard.

Sam jerked awake again and frowned deeply at what Dean doubted was a pretty sight.

The younger hunter took a good long look at his brother – shaky and pale and fresh from almost tasting his dinner a second time – and shook his sandy head.

"We're stopping at the next motel we see," said Sam. "You don't get to argue."

Lucky for Sammy, arguing was the last thing Dean wanted to do.

* * *

  
"You won't at least take your temperature to see if you need Tylenol or something?"

"There are only two people I go to for medical help," said Dean, pulling the blankets up tighter around his ears. "Dr. Sexy and Jack Daniels... ah- _CHFFZZZTZ!_ "

"That didn't sound remotely human."

" _You_  don't sound remotely human," Dean mocked under his breath. His stomach twinged hard; he curled onto his side as slowly as possible and tried to keep from wincing.

"You should hydrate," suggested Sam.

"No."

"Dude, you're white as a sheet. If I didn't know any better, I'd wanna go dig up your bones for a salt-and-burn."

"Real witty," Dean grumbled. His guts felt like they were trapped in a washing machine on spin cycle.

Sam sighed. "Can I do anything? Do you want me to put on some TV–"

" _No_."

"Okay... Could I ask why not?"

"Gottaconcentrate," said Dean, rushing to get the words out so he could shut his mouth again.

"On..."

"Notpuking."

"TMI, but alright." Sam grinned. "Hey, maybe I could get you that pie now!"

Dean stuck his hand out from the under the covers like a submarine periscope, flipped Sam the bird, and, mercifully, fell asleep.

* * *

  
When Dean woke up some four hours later, sweaty and discombobulated, it was to the sound of "Auld Lang Syne" humming in the air. At first he thought it was the fever (okay, yes, fine, he had a fever after all), but when he propped himself up on one elbow and squinted across the room he saw a black and white movie on the TV screen.

" _It's a Wonderful Life_ ," said Sam from the other bed.

"Yeah, not so much," countered Dean hoarsely, lowering himself gingerly back onto the mattress. He didn't know one person's body could ache in so many damn places. At least he'd slept off the need to blow chunks.

"You missed the whole movie, practically," said Sam. "Figured I shouldn't wake you up, though."

"Smart choice." Dean's head was thumping in time with his heart. He pulled his forearm up to cover his sore eyes. "So, what'd you dig up on those women?"

"Those what?"

"The case, Sammy, the damn... euh... ah...  _CHHOOFZZT!_ " The sneeze rocketed Dean's head off the pillow, which was surprising because Dean was sure his head weighed at least a ton at the moment.

"Oh, actually..." said Sam, getting off the bed and heading for his duffle, "I didn't have time to look into it."

"Jesus, Sam," Dean croaked, massaging his temple with a shaky hand, "we have one job to do in this life..."

"Exactly," said Sam. He brandished a couple big paper bags. " _We_  have one job to do. And no matter what you're saying now, I know you'd kill me if I tried to run off and do it without you. So instead of working on the case, I got you something while you were out."

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and rolled onto his side away from Sam. "I ain't drinking any damn chicken 'n' stars."

"Good, because that's not what it is," said Sam. Through his stuffed-up ears, Dean heard a faint clinking as Sam pulled something out of the bags.

"Not to toot my own horn," the younger hunter continued, "but  _I_  think what I got you is pretty far up your alley."

Dean rolled over, slowly, painfully. "I'm listening."

Sam was grabbing two tumblers from the room's kitchenette. "I looked online," he said, "and found a recipe for a remedy that's more your style. Once I found it, all I needed was a trip to the nearest liquor store and..."

"Sam, be honest: am I delirious?" Dean asked.

"Uh..." said Sam, "I don't think so..."

"Then  _you're_  really making me a  _drink?_ "

Sam smiled and gestured at the bottles. "Cocktail, to be exact. With all your favorite stuff: whiskey, coffee liqueur... Oh– and I threw a little peppermint schnapps in 'cause... you know. Christmas and all."

"That's very fruity of you, Sammy, thank you," said Dean wryly, grimacing a little at the pain in his throat. 

"Aw, come on," said Sam, dropping a couple ice cubes into the drinks. "I slave over your precious booze and  _that's_ the thanks I get?"

"Hey," said Dean, starting to feel good enough to smile, "I never asked for the drink, there's no politeness protocol here."

Sam laughed. "Do you want it or not? If you're too nauseous I could just have both, you know..."

"Nonono," said Dean quickly. "Not in puke mode anymore. Just..." He let out a couple wet coughs for added effect. "Just really wouldn't mind the drink."

The younger hunter smiled, shook his head, and put Dean's cocktail on the nightstand. Dean was just beginning to wonder how in the hell he was gonna sit up to drink it when he felt Sam's hands underneath his shoulders, easing him up gently on the pillows. Dean's head swam for a moment in its newly vertical position.

"Bottom's up," said Sam, handing the drink off to his older brother. "You can hold it, right? You don't need a straw or anything, do you?"

"Bite me," said Dean, mostly because he was asking himself the same questions. He put both hands around the glass and concentrated on keeping them as steady as possible.

When the drink successfully hit his cracked lips it was... Hot damn, it was like Nirvana with a side of awesome. In spite of himself, Dean actually liked the peppermint; the Kahlua was great, and the whiskey... The whiskey tasted a little different than it usually did. 

Scratch that – a  _lot_  different. A lot  _better_.

"Sam," Dean ventured, "did you buy me freaking  _Jameson_ _?_ "

Sammy was grinning ear to ear. He held up his own drink.

"Merry early Christmas, Dean," he said.

Dean really did smile this time. "Merry early Christmas, you crazy sonofabitch. I still can't believe Wheatgrass Winchester's letting me drink booze while I'm sick, though."

Sam's grin widened.

"I figured it'd be easier to trick you into taking ibuprofen if I crushed it up in some whiskey," he said.

"You're a devious bastard, you know that?" said Dean, taking another careful swig.

"Just get better, okay?"

"Well on my way, Sammy," Dean replied, feeling the booze blot out the aches in his bones. "Well on my way."

Maybe it  _was_  a wonderful life, after all.


	9. Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Dean's detective skills shine through on a case, the boys find out that mistletoe apparently isn't only used for stealing kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see chapters 1 or 2 for a **disclaimer** for other authors and a note on **spoilers** , or the lack thereof.
> 
> This is a cute short chap, warming up to bigger things in the coming days. And yep, I know I'm a little behind. Finalllls! I'll catch up soon though. :)
> 
> Enjoy!

 

  
**_December 9th – Mistletoe_ **

****

"Don't say it," said Sam.

Dean gaped at the dead rodent dangling from the ceiling in front of him. It was bad enough people in the town had been dropping for no good reason – no signs of break ins, no wounds, weird green stuff found in their stomachs afterwards... And now this. Nope – screw Sam, he was saying it anyway.

"Fucking  _witches!_ " he squawked.

"Does it really piss you off that much every time?"

"I mean, look at it Sam," Dean ranted, flapping his hand in the direction of the slain animal. "The bitch strung up a god damn _ferret!_ "

"Yeah," sighed Sam, hands in his pockets. "Yeah, I'm looking at it, Dean. I wish I weren't."

Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth in bewilderment and cast his eyes around the room.

"I mean," he continued, "why can't they just use a kitchen like every other damn family on earth? It's like their one mission is to ruin their own living rooms with their nasty liquids and their little crunchy bone bags and their... Hey wait a minute..."

Dean bent down at the knees and plucked a little kelly green leaf from the floor.

"I recognize this plant," he said.

"Didn't know you went to witches' weekly garden club meetings," chortled Sam.

"Up yours," said Dean. "Only reason I know is because a ton of these leaves fell in my hair when I was making out with that chick at the Day-After-Christmas rager at that one bar... It's  _mistletoe_."

"Well, what do you know," said Sam. "The brain in your pants finally makes itself useful."

"Hey, we're just lucky I remembered  _anything_  about that night," said Dean. His eyes misted over. "Then again, how could I forget that girl's–"

"Okayyy, going to the car now."

"I mean, she was just fantastic..."

 

It turned out mistletoe was the clue that cracked the case wide open.

The witch in question had been engaging in Pagan rituals of human sacrifice to make the local farms' cows more fertile. ("Ew," Dean had said). According to lore, those who were sacrificed were fed mistletoe before they were ganked, thus explaining the green stuff in the victim's stomachs.   
  
"Kinda makes you think about misteltoe a little differently, huh?" asked Sam as they drove away from town.  
  
"Eh, not really," said Dean with a wry smile. "S'long as it's an accessory to good times, it's a winner in my book."  
  
"Just make sure whoever you're with isn't, you know..."  
  
"A witch? Yeah, for sure. Chick has one dead ferret in her apartment and I'm gone."  
  
"That..." said Sam. He shook his head. "That makes sense, Dean."  
  
"Damn straight," Dean said.


	10. Fruit for Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby gets a fruitcake as a gift for helping out a friend. It's terrifying. (Suffice to say this is pretty much crack. Experimenting with Cas!POV for a change!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see either chapters 1 or 2 for a **disclaimer** for other authors and a note on **spoiler** , or the lack thereof.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

**_December 10th – Fruit for Thought_ **

  
_"I'd rather have a colonoscopy than be forced to eat fruitcake!"_  
A comment from user Livetotravel, on the seriouseats.com forum topic "Do people really hate fruitcake?"

Typically when Castiel, Angel of the Lord, received a call from either of the Winchesters, it meant nothing pleasant. They usually needed him to do some tedious or foolish task that was detrimental to his health and/or sanity. There was a statistical algorithm that proved the truth of this pattern, but humans would have a very difficult time grasping it and so Castiel never bothered sharing.

Sometimes the Winchesters even had the nerve to summon him, which took extra effort on their part and was essentially unavoidable and a mite painful on his. Such was the case on this particular December evening, when Castiel had felt an ominous tingle quiver across a the sine waves of energy in several of his dimensional fields and was pulled less gracefully than he would have hoped into the living room of Bobby Singer, where he was faced with the frightened visages of the older hunter and the brothers Winchester.

"What is it?" Castiel asked, reacquainting himself with the sound of Jimmy's voice.

Dean's eyebrows were in the process of trying to invade his eyeballs from above. Sam looked simply terrified, Bobby like he was ready to bolt from the house at any moment. Clearly there was something in the room that Castiel wasn't sensing; he felt a slight twinge of embarrassment at his failure to read the hunters' social cues. He made a mental note to travel the globe and study more facial expressions.

"You gotta destroy it, Cas," said Dean, his usually sturdy voice trembling.

"Clearly you did not hear my first question, Dean. I can't help until I know what it is."

"See for yourself," whispered Sam, as though he might provoke whatever "it" was into going on a bloody rampage.

Dean gestured urgently at a small rectangular object sitting on Bobby's coffee table. Castiel could sense immediately that said object was some form of organic matter, probably edible, incredibly dense, encased in a thin layer of aluminum. The angel was unsure whether the aluminum was meant to keep the item safe or to keep others safe from the item, but judging by the hunters' mannerisms Castiel assumed the latter.

"It seems to have no inherent malevolent properties, magical or otherwise," Castiel said.

"That's because it's so devious," said Sam. "It looks plain but believe us, Cas, it is far,  _far_  from innocent."

"Last time I ate it," whispered Dean, "I was clogged up worse than when you sent me back to the 1970's."

"It's a damn abomination," said Bobby. "And it's not stayin' in my house. So Cas, do whatever you gotta do."

Castiel, still confused about the humans' reaction to the seemingly benign item, said, "I'll try my best."

Castiel sat back some twenty minutes later, satisfied with his abilities to destroy what he had come to learn was called a "fruitcake." The Winchesters had firmly discouraged him from eating it, but seeing as it was technically a piece of human food he could think of no better way to satisfactorily disassemble it.

Dean had sat next to him at Bobby's kitchen table with his hand on the garbage can in case Castiel suffered an adverse side effect of the cake that Dean continued to refer to as "hurling," "spewing," or "ralphing," but Castiel had done none of those things. In fact, he found the fruitcake rather tasty as far as human edibles went, which he supposed was to do with Jimmy's tastes from his previous life as an unoccupied vessel.

"Man," said Dean when the angel had consumed the last crumb. "First the burgers and now this. It's a miracle Jimmy wasn't obese or dead by the time you thought of jumpin' his bones." Dean gave the angel a pat on the back, which Castiel assumed was a sign of solidarity and congratulations.

"Miracles do happen, Dean," said Castiel gravely. He did wonder, however, what Dean had meant earlier by "clogged." 

It was not of import; he supposed he would find out sooner or later.

 


	11. Here We Come A' Caroling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some unexpected guests outside the boys' motel room bring back memories for Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see either chapters 1 or 2 for a **disclaimer** for other authors and a note on **spoilers** , or the lack thereof.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

**_December 11th – Here We Come A' Caroling_ **

****

"Man, I keep telling you to stop using those freaking vibrator beds when I'm around," said Sam, glowering at Dean from across the motel room. "It's disgusting."

"Eh, you're just jealous because you have no uninhibited desires," replied Dean, a lazy grin plastered on his face, body trembling on the mattress. "Must be awful."

"Sicko."

"Bitch..."

"Wait. Turn it off," said Sam harshly and quietly, his body suddenly rigid.

"What? No friggin' way, I paid for this with my own damn quarters!"

Sam bounded across the room and clamped his hand over Dean's mouth, who frantically struggled to slap it away.

Sam hissed into his brother's face, "I mean turn the bed off and shut your trap because _I heard something outside._ Do it  _now_."

Dean turned the bed off. He pricked his ears up and listened. They'd been tailed through the Minnesota snows by demons for days in a classic case of "Dean-pissed-off-the-wrong-supernatural-entity." Now, just when they thought the sons of bitches had lost their scent... Well, that was the job. The Magic Fingers would have to wait.

Outta the corner of his eye he saw Sam's nostrils flaring, searching for a whiff of sulfur. Dean's hand snaked under his pillow and closed around his knife. He straightened up and steeled himself near the edge of the bed like a coiled spring. He could hear his heart pushing adrenaline through his veins; he thought he saw the doorknob shuddering and then...

And then the singing started.

There were at least ten voices singing outside the door, but they were all blending together pretty good, like a well-trained choir. It didn't sound evil, like a twisted demonic chant or some crazy-ass witch's incantation. It was... actually kinda nice. Peaceful.

Peaceful, Dean realized, in an eerie sorta way – because it was a damn  _Christmas carol_ , and there was absolutely no reason carollers should be coming to guests' doors at a rundown motel in Middle-of-Freaking-Nowhere, Minnesota, population: two.

But it did sound nice. So nice, and so, so peaceful... Like Dean could almost remember his mom singing that song to him when he was little... What was it called...

"Is that..." said Sam, raising an eyebrow.  
 _  
_"Silent Night," said Dean, the name suddenly coming to him crystal clear. He stared into thin air, mesmerized. "Yeah."

"Whoever's out there is singing it a hell of a lot better than we did last time we tried," said Sam with a half-smile. "Could be a trap though."

"You know, I was thinkin' the same thing, but somehow..." said Dean, "somehow I don't think it is."

"What's gotten into  _you,_  Mr. Shoot First Questions Later?" asked Sam incredulously.

"I dunno..." said Dean wistfully, "I dunno..." He suddenly found himself starting for the door. "I'm gonna go see who's out there–"

"Wait, are you  _crazy?_ "

"Just... trust me, Sammy..."

Dean laid a hand on the doorknob and slowly, slowly...

The instant he got the door open the singing stopped. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness. All Dean could see was the snow falling on the railing of the motel's second floor balcony, the snow landing on the cars below, the snow coating the earth beyond for miles and miles, still and pale as death under the moonlight.

He heard the keening bleat of the EMF detector behind him. He guessed Sam had dragged it out of his duffle.

"They're ghosts, Dean," said Sammy, but he sounded so damn far away...

"Dean," said Sammy, "c'mon. Salt. Guns. Let's go."

"No..." said Dean. "No... Not a good idea... They're fine, just let them stay..." His eyes had water in them...

"Dean, are you... Are you  _crying?_ "

"Wh- what? No–  _no!_  I just... I don't think there's anything wrong with 'em, that's all. Besides, they stopped singing anyway."

"Okay," said Sam, moving to shut the door while Dean stayed frozen, "but if they come back I'm not saving your ass." He gave his older brother a firm pat on the shoulder and moved to finish unpacking.

 Later that night, as Dean was lying on the bed drifting off with the feeling of the good ol' Magic Fingers on his back, he heard them again. They were singing so quiet he thought later that maybe he'd dreamt it. But they were so damn beautiful, their voices, just hanging on the air like little... bells, or something. Not that he was gonna get all chick-flick over it. It did sound like Mom, though...

Dean wondered what could have happened to them – to those carolers – that they'd ended up like this, singing outside motel rooms in the bitter cold at night.

In the morning, his nose and eyes were red, like he'd been crying.

 


	12. All of the Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A concussed Dean tries to push his way through a Christmastime case. Sam is there to catch him when he falls – quite literally. Featuring hurt!Dean and caring!Sam a'plenty!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see either chapters 1 or 2 for a **disclaimer** for other authors and a note on **spoilers** , or the lack thereof.
> 
> This chapter was written for LJ user **spitsparks** , who prompted this amazing plotbunny on [hoodie_time's](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/746163.html?view=9959091#t9959091) Dean-centric h/c holiday wish list party!
> 
> Enjoy!

**_December 12th – All of the Lights_ **

****

  
Somebody was shouting his name over and over like a freaking personalized alarm clock, so Dean Winchester decided to crack his eyes open. Just a little, though, only a speck. A speckle. Hurt to be awake, damn flashy lights messing with his head. And that little pissy voice over and over again, Dean hey Dean hey hey Dean. Had to get back to sleep. Sleep was important... and good, yeah. He couldn't stay awake, nope, not now, that would just... be ridiculous...  
  
Shut-eye. Z's. Mm. Yes. His face felt a little off but he just breathed through everything like, what were those, yoga breaths? Like a damn chick in yoga class... He liked chicks. He liked sleep. Where was Sammy though. Also there were blankets around him but it wasn't really nighttime, couldn't be with the damn flashy lights everywhere...  
  
Dean, man, you gotta wake up for me, said the God Damn Voice. Jesus Christ, he thought, what could be so freaking important. He'd just had one too many brewskies, whiskey shooters, whatever it was he was drinking nowadays. Sleepin' it off, man, I'm sleeping it off, can't you see that.  
  
His face didn't feel off, he realized, it felt  _cold_. It was the middle of the bright yellow summer though, and he was coming in from playing in the sandbox and trying to get all the stupid leaves out of it with his dump truck, so how could his face be cold? And he was coming in from the sandbox, sand stuck in his hair and all down his shirt, and Mom was standing at the back door with a... well, he couldn't really tell but it kinda looked like a pie... and her yellow hair and her yellow dress and she was saying Dean Dean Dean, hey Dean, hey, Dean, Dean you gotta wake up okay, Dean come on, if you don't wake up I'm hauling your ass to the hospital I swear to god–  
  
The word "hospital" shot Dean back into the land of the living like a rubber band snapping in his brain.  
  
And oh holy  _fuck_ , his head...  
  
"No h'spitals..." he grunted like a stroke victim. The way his head felt, though, he honestly started to think about taking that back. This was pushing the bounds of previous experience with painful returns to consciousness. He was one giant slow swollen pulsating achy skull. He tried to lift himself in the direction he thought might be 'up' and groaned, "P'rk th'damn car, S'mmy..."  
  
"Heyheyhey, woah," cautioned Sam, and there was the typical restraining moose hand (but moose didn't have hands... or was it meese...) on his shoulder. Who in the hell was driving the car, then...  
  
"You're in bed at the motel, okay?" Sam said, his voice all garbled. Well that answered that. Son of a _bitch,_ these spins were somethin' else. Coulda sworn he was in the Impala.  
  
"What's your name?" Sam asked.  
  
"Aw c'mon, you s'rious...?"  
  
"As the grave – which is where you might end up if you can't answer me, so please just tell me what your name is."  
  
"Dean Winch'ster." Sam had only yelled it in his face like fifty times trying to wake him up. Jesus.  
  
"Good, Dean, good," said Sam. Sam's hand was on his forehead now. It was cool. Kinda felt nice. "When's your birthday?"  
  
"January twen'y-f'rth, sev'nty nine..." He swore his goddamn  _hair_  was throbbing. The bed underneath him felt like a tilt-a-whirl cart. "God, please jus' l'mme sleep now..."  
  
"I'm sorry, man, it's either stay awake for a little bit or hospital," said Sam. Dean felt a low moan ooze out of his throat. "I know," said Sam, keeping the one hand steady on his shoulder, "I know it sucks, but you were out cold for a good ten minutes back at that Christmas festival – and I mean  _cold_ , I tried slapping, pinching, everything. I was pretty close to bringing you in then and there."  
  
"Well, 'm awake now," Dean slurred, "y'happy?"  
  
"Not really," said Sam. "Your pupils are the size of Jupiter." Dean could see through the sore slits of his eyes that all three of Sam's faces looked pretty damn worried.   
  
Dean ground his teeth against a sudden electrical surge of agony. Oh Jesus fuck  _ow_. "So concussion, then," he panted, like it wasn't completely obvious. The beginnings of sweat beaded on his upper lip. He felt hot and cold and dizzy and strung out and wrong.  
  
"Yeah," Sam confirmed, "one of the worst I've ever seen on you if I'm being completely honest." Sam was medically multitasking, one hand adjusting the ice pack on Dean's head (the cold made sense now), the other probing the jittery pulse in his wrist.   
  
"Occupational haz'rd..." murmured Dean, feeling pretty miffed that he'd been reduced to "murmuring" things. Felt a little melancholy, too, which was weird for him. Then again, he was also seeing triple; the amount he'd banged himself up, it made sense for his brain to think it belonged to a chocolate-deprived PMS victim.   
  
"I guess you're right," Sam replied. "You should probably stop letting ghosts throw you into stables at live nativity scenes, though."  
  
So that really was how it happened. Jeez. Dean thought he might've dreamt it during the bizarro peyote trip of unconsciousness: getting thrown into a scale replica of baby Jesus's Christmas Eve dojo at one of those damn German outdoor Christmas markets. What a screwy way to get your ass beat by a ghost. The last thing he'd remembered was his head smacking hard against the wooden planks of the stable, his limp body landing on what he thought might've been a sheep, and the woman who was playing reenactment-Virgin-Mary screaming bloody murder.  
  
"Well," Dean said, "now at least we know for sure we have a case... th'market's pretty haunted, huh."  
  
"You could say that again," said Sam. "But – don't actually say it again, you gotta rest." He gently put Dean's arm back under the blankets. Dean knew the drill – everything got covered up to keep body heat in. If his head weren't a messy lump of aches right now he'd be able to follow along with Sam's first aid thought process no problem. He'd meant what he'd said about concussions being an occupational hazard; any hunter who went more than four cases without a head injury was either indestructible or effing up the job. He and Sammy were head wound aficionados. Even with his skull screaming at him Dean could visualize the Winchester checklist: consciousness, airway, pulse, pupils, ice... Ah, screw it, he thought as another pitchfork drove itself into his brainpan. Visualizing hurt too much.  
  
"Think you could drink some water for me?" asked Sam.  
  
"Hell no."  
  
"Dean," said Sam, eyebrows creased in concern, "I don't want to take you to the hospital. I really don't. I know how much you hate it. But I'm not gonna get on the merry-go-round of trying to get you to take care of yourself. You know you need fluids, even if you're tired or whatever."  
  
"If you try t'put anything in my stomach you'll have t'clean up the result," groaned Dean. Not an ounce of fiction in that statement, either: his eyes were mixing up Sam's three heads like the numbers in a bingo cage.  
  
"Okay," Sam replied, "but if you're not ready to drink anything in an hour I'm gonna have to take my chances."  
  
"Tough love, Sammy."   
  
Sam gave his brother a tight smile. "Comes with the job description," he said.   
  
"Which job?" said Dean weakly, dragging a corner of his mouth up. "Hunter or nurse?"  
  
"Brother," Sam replied. He scrunched the covers up around Dean's chin. "Hang in there," he said.  
  
Eventually, when Sam was sure he wasn't gonna tap out again, he helped Dean sit up, got some water and meds in him, and let him go to sleep.   
  
The sleep was better than the best double bacon cheeseburger on Earth.  
  


  


Much to Sam's disapproval, Dean put himself back on the case in a day and a half.

The first twenty-four hours after the injury Dean had done nothing but sleep, the tips of his twiggy hair poking out of the top of the motel comforter. Sam would wake him up from time to time to get him to drink water or Gatorade or a protein shake – all of them room temperature to prevent brain freeze on top of the concussion, a tip they'd both learned the hard way. Dean was spacey and oddly crestfallen every time he opened his eyes, like someone who'd just died and was waking up to find out the afterlife wasn't all that great. Sam knew it was just the concussion, and the weird emotions would wear off in a few days – still, he hated seeing Dean being so thoroughly un-Dean. Part of Sam wished (probably selfishly) that his brother would whip the covers off, start in on a hammy rendition of "Heat of the Moment," and stride out to the Impala, guns blazing.

The next morning, Sam really wished he hadn't wished what he'd wished – all redundancies aside.

He came out of the bathroom from his shower and shave and there was Dean, perched on the edge of the bed, lacing up his boots and humming feebly to himself. It didn't take a genius to see that Dean still wasn't all there; his face was a weird color, his hair wild, eyes red-rimmed and heavy-lidded, voice crackling, overcompensating cheerful demeanor, shirt buttons done up the wrong way, slight tremor in his fingers as they clung to his bootlaces.

"Phew!" Dean puffed, putting his newly-laced boot on the floor and slapping his palms to his knees. "Man, that was rough. I was like 'Brain Stew' by Green Day. Good thing it's over..."

Sam watched Dean's grip on his own knees get tighter and tighter, his smile getting thinner, the gears turning in Dean's eyes like he was trying to get up but didn't know whether he'd be able to yet. Sam sighed inwardly. Whenever Dean was sick or injured in the middle of a case, there was always a point past which his stir-craziness outweighed how crappy he felt – and even if he wasn't ready, he'd just throw himself back into the job and wind up couch-ridden at Bobby's for a few weeks afterwards. Sam knew it was happening now; and for all he'd done in the past to try and stop it, it was better to just let things run their course so they could finish the case and get Dean some real rest as soon as possible. 

"What's on the menu for today, Sammy?" said Dean. Sam watched the back of his brother's jaw twitch. If this was how Dean wanted it to be, this was how it was gonna be.

Sam made himself shrug through the heartache. "I'm thinking we go back to that Christmas market. More weird stuff's been happening since the day before yesterday; high time we figured out what's up, I guess."

"Couldn't agree more," chirped Dean, forcing alertness into his voice like jamming a square peg into a round hole.

"Fine," said Sam, tensing his jaw. He shoved his hands in his pockets and threw Dean what he hoped was an "I-can-see-right-through-you-but-I'm-also-concerned-and-you're-scaring-me-a-little-like-you-always-do-and-why-are-you-so-damn-stubborn" look. 

Either Dean didn't get the gist of Sam's stare or he chose to ignore it, because he stood straight up, listed to the side for a fraction of a second, rubbed his hands together, grabbed his duffle, and marched a little unsteadily out the door.

   


  
Dean  _drove_  to the Christmas market. Sam couldn't believe they'd made it there in one piece. 

"Uh, Dean," he'd said on the way, "kinda drifting a little there... Like, into the wrong lane, maybe... completely..."

"Hey, no distracting the driver," Dean had said absentmindedly. Sam had gnashed his teeth and tried to keep from grabbing the wheel.

At the pace Dean had driven (" _What?_  Sam, I'm goin' at  _least_  sixty."), it was a marvel they'd gotten there with any daylight left at all. The market was abuzz with the strange energy of the dusk, a fine layer of snow powdering the ground, little kids sipping hot chocolate and adults sipping hot spiced rum. Strings of bright white lights formed a canopy stretching overhead from aisle to aisle, booth to booth. The little booths were all neatly assembled, each with its old-world charm, selling different Christmas crafts and little weird kitschy odds and ends. Sam wondered which of them might be haunted.

He didn't have much time to wonder, though, because a few seconds later Dean got out of the car, stood up straight, and subsequently toppled sideways. Dean's face turned white faster than a chameleon in a snowdrift; he fell completely unchecked, but managed at the last second to make it look like he'd been intending to lean "casually" against the Impala like the Fonz leaning against a jukebox – one elbow resting on the car, the other hand on his hip, one foot stuck jauntily behind the other. Sam didn't have the heart to tell his brother that the pose looked forced and his eyes were watering to boot.

The second time Dean started falling was in front of the hot pretzel booth.

"Hot damn," he'd said, his enthusiasm half-feigned, his breath frosting the air in front of him. "One a' those with some cheese dipping sauce would be heaven right about now..."

And then his eyes glazed over and his knees folded like someone had pulled his plug.

Sam's arms were under his brother's shoulders in a heartbeat.

"Woahwoahwoah," Sam said, "you're okay, you're okay..." He waited, heart thudding like a jackhammer, to see if Dean would be able to support himself at all. After a few hour-long seconds, Sam felt Dean shift his weight up, forward, and back onto his own feet. Sam took Dean's shoulders and turned him around to get a better look at him. The older hunter was ashen and sweaty, dragging the heel of a trembling hand across his wince-wrinkled brow.

"S'okay..." Dean hissed through clenched teeth. "Just all the damn freakin' Christmas lights... Y'know how it gets with lights 'n' headaches..."

"Yeah," said Sam with a rueful smile, pretty sure his hands on Dean's shoulders were about the only thing keeping his brother from collapsing. "Yeah, I know how it is with Christmas lights and  _unhealed concussions_."

Dean started to nod, but then seemed to realize that Sam was wise to the macho shrugging-off of his serious head injury. And with that realization, Dean shook his head, grimaced because shaking his head was incredibly painful, let his spine slacken... and fell forward onto Sam's shoulders.

Sam drove the Impala back to motel. Dean got the whole back seat to himself.

Later that evening, Sam went back out to the Christmas market and bought Dean a styrofoam cup of hot cocoa. At first, Dean tried to shrug it away, ashamed to be sweaty and sickly and bedridden again, embarrassed that his younger brother had seen straight through his bravado. But when Sam produced the hot pretzel with cheese dip he'd bought as well, Dean let go of his grudge.

"Let me know if you're gonna fall down on your way to the can at any point in time," Sam quipped, unable to resist.

Because Dean couldn't talk around his massive mouthful of cheesy pretzel, he settled for the finger.

"Tough love, Dean," said Sam.

Dean shrugged, smiled, and replied: "Comes with the job description."


	13. Hooves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys work on a December case. A certain angel reads some Christmas lore and thinks of a way to spread some cheer. Hint: the way has hooves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see chapters 1 or 2 for a **disclaimer** for other authors and a not on **spoilers** , or the lack thereof. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_**December 13th –** **Hooves** _

Dean had never had a killer sense of smell; Sam claimed it was from inhaling whiskey as he tipped it back into his mouth, or from drinking in general. Dean always said that was a crock of bull, but deep down he saw no reason it couldn't be true. Granted, life could go down the crapper pretty quickly for a hunter who couldn't smell sulfur, but pfft. If it ever got that bad he'd get it checked out... Really, he would.

Apparently there wasn't a damn thing wrong Dean's his nose this morning, though. Is was literally a  _smell_ that woke him up, the noxious and musty odor of... What was that, a petting zoo? Jesus. He squinted his eyes up. He'd been in nasty-smelling hotel rooms before, but this was something else entirely, and it hadn't been there last night. He hoped to god Sam hadn't fouled up the bathroom or anything horrible like that. It was cold as a mother outside; there was no way he was vacating and sleeping the rest of the morning away in the Impala.

Dean was about to haul the blankets over his head and ignore the stentch when he felt a puff of wet air on his forehead.

He shook his head, grumbled "What the hell," and opened his eyes to the sight of a fully-grown caribou's nose poking into his face.

"Son of a  _bitch_ _!_ " he yelped, attempting to scramble away from Bambi's dad in a manic flurry of tangled sheets. He half-rolled, half-scooted over the edge of the bed and tumbled to the floor in a panting heap. From the other side of the room he heard Sam's matching "Holy  _shit!_ "

"Sam, is there a god damn  _caribou_... in the middle of the room? Or did I get dosed by a djinn again?"

"Nope..." Sam's voice answere, breathless. "Definitely a caribou."

Dean poked his tousled head experimentally over the edge of the mattress. The thing seemed calm enough, but oh man was it  _massive_. And it stunk to high heaven.

"How in the hell did your cousin get here, anyway, Sammy?" Dean asked.

"Very funny, short stuff..."

"Not 'how in the hell,'" a familiar gruff voice said over Dean's shoulder. "More like 'how in  _Heaven_.'"

"Dammit, Cas," Dean growled without turning around. " _You_ put this thing in here?"

"Oh, Necromancer won't charge you," Castiel replied, skirting the edge of the bed to pet the gigantic animal. "He's very docile."

"You  _named_ it?" said Sam.

"It's a 'he,'" said Castiel, looking a little hurt, "not an 'it.' And yes, I named him 'Necromancer.'"

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Kind of a creepy name."

"To be honest it came off the top of my head," the angel replied. "I was thinking of the caribou that pull that fat man's vehicle on Christmas Eve..."

"Santa Claus," said Sam.

Castiel snapped a finger in the air like he'd rediscovered something important. "Yes!" he said, "Santa Claus – that's the fan man's name. Anyhow– I was thinking about the caribou that pull his vehicle, and how all of their names are labels with -er suffixes for inidividuals who perform certain tasks or actions... Prancer, Dancer, Dasher..."

"Aren't you forgetting  _Vixen_?" Dean asked.

"And  _Blitzen?_ " asked Sam. "And Cupi-"

"The general trend still holds true for most of them," said Cas, clearly ruffled. "And because I couldn't think of another word that ended in -er besides 'Necromancer,' the name stuck."

"Oh yeah, it's stickin' real good," said Dean with an eye-roll. "Can you just take the thing somewhere else so we can do our job and not lose our damn deposit on the room? It's stinking like nobody's business."

"I don't understand," Castiel said with a classic furrow of his brow. "I thought that Western humans enjoyed spending time in December surrounded by things that reminded of them of Christmas... Maybe I got the whole idea of 'Christmas spirit' wrong..."

"No, no, Cas," said Sam hastily. "Necromancer's uh... he's great. A little smelly... but great. It's just, we don't exactly..." He tried looking to Dean for a cue. Dean threw his brother a "you're-on-your-own" shrug.

Sam said, "We don't have room to bring him everywhere, you know?"

"Oh," Cas replied, seemingly relieved. "It's alright – I know he won't fit in or on your car. That's why I enchanted him to fly in the first place."

Dean was almost positive he was dreaming.

"When the spell wears off, I'll zap him back to his herd," Castiel said, stroking the reindeer's shoulder. "Really, it's one of God's most magnificent creatures..."

Dean told Ben a lot later, at Christmas, that he'd ridden a flying reindeer that had been juiced up with Rudolph mojo by an angel. The kid thought for sure that Dean was screwing with him, but Dean didn't mind.

He needed to tell the story from time to time just to make sure he didn't forget it had happened.

 


	14. High Kicks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean doesn't know who invented the Rockettes, but he wants to buy them a beer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see chapters 1 or 2 for a **disclaimer** for other authors and a note on **spoilers** , or the lack thereof.
> 
> Enjoy!

_**December 14th – High Kicks** _

__

_**  
**_Dean doesn't know who invented the Rockettes, but he wants to buy them a beer.

Scratch that – make it forty beers. One for each pair of those gorgeous, flexible legs.

Dean doesn't like to characterize himself as a womanizer. It takes all the fun out of... well... okay, he can't think of a better word for it than "womanizing" right now, but whatever. He's not like that. Not _really_.

Regardless, the Rockettes aren't _meant_  to be wholesome. Sure, they're singing songs about frickin' sleighbells and gingerbread and yada yada... But seriously, the way they're dressed just makes "Deck the Halls" sound like an invitation.

He and Sam had been out East for a case, and Sam'd had the bright idea of doing something in the city – _the_ city, _New York_ City – to shake things up. Dean didn't see how anything in a big, smelly, dirty city could possibly be better than the open road. But he remembered his vow to himself to let Sam steer the ship more often – between jobs, at least – and if this was something Sam wanted to do, then fine. 

So he parked his Baby (very reluctantly) in a garage on the edge of Manhattan. He and Sam took the subway into the heart of it all (which was a godawful experience for Dean, who wanted to shove everyone's sweaty bodies out of his way with a giant poker). Dean had a hard time with NYC – he'd be the first to admit it. He was all for some excitement, but not here, not like this. The lights in the place were too bright, the people too loud, and everything about it was too stupidly cheerful and commercially anaesthetized this time of year. _City fulla damn rats_ , Dean thought,  _and not just the ones in the sewer._ The only redeemable thing Dean had found so far was street vendor hot dogs, of which he purchased three. He was leaning heavily against a newspaper stand stuffing a bunned-and-relished beef stick into his face when he saw _it_.

"'Ammy," he said, pointing, his mouth crammed full of vendor dog, "is 'at a 'oster 'or a 'Rismas 'rip 'lub?"

"Dude, swallow," Sam said disgustedly.

"That's what she said," Dean said quietly after gulping down the bite of dog. He repeated, more clearly, "Is that a poster for a Christmas  _strip club?_ "

"Man, get your head out of the gutter, seriously. They're  _Rockettes_ , Dean."

"Like, the can-can bitches of today? Moulin Rouge for the 21st Century?"

"Whatever you feel like calling it..."

Dean eyes widened. "They're doing a show tonight."

"So?"

"You shitting me? You don't wanna go?"

Sam shook his head. "Dean, it's a  _Christmas_ show for _families_."

"Well," said Dean, shoving in another mouthful of hot dog, "we're a family, aren't we? We're a family that likes  _boobs_."

"Come on, Dean. You're disgusting."

"Hey, quit 'Dean'-ing me. If you got a better idea, I'm all ears. Otherwise we can sit here eatin' hot dogs all night, which I'm more than okay with. And I know you have zero desire to go to an actual club; the volume of the music alone would make you wanna hobble back to the nursing home you escaped from."

Samn replied with an epic eye roll. "Fine," he said. "Radio City Rockettes Christmas Spectacular it is. But you know if we buy tickets at the door, we're gonna get nosebleed seats."

Dean shoved the last of his third hot dog (chili cheese dog, to be exact) into his face hole, grinning, and said, "That's what the binoculars I'm about to lift from that pawn shop on the corner are for."

By the time the show was over, Dean didn't want to buy the Rockettes creator 40 beers.

He wanted to buy him (or her) 40 bottles of fifty-years-aged fine wine.

Because the Rockettes were classy.

Obviously.


	15. Giftwrap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean doesn't handle his own loose screws very well. Especially when it comes to exorcisms on Christmas Day. (AU depending on how you interpret my thoughts on how Dean felt about Hell).
> 
> Dark!fic. **Warnings** for language, mentions of torture, post-Hell issues, and light **S4 spoilers**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see chapters 1 or 2 for a **disclaimer** for other authors and a note on **spoilers** , or the lack thereof.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

_Didn't mean to cross you_

_Didn't mean to tie you up_

_Only wanted to please you_

_Standin' at the door you shut_

The Johns, "Giftwrap"

 

 

_**December 15th – Giftwrap** _

__

__

**  
**Dean would be the first to admit that he didn't know how to handle his own loose screws.

 _Whoops_ , he thought as he sliced into a demon's jugular with a salt-soaked blade,  _there they go again._

There was blood on the stone floor of Bobby's basement. Some of it was probably his own, but most of it wasn't. The blood was hot and thick and made him feel alive. And if that was a sin, then he wouldn't know what to do with himself. He'd been to Hell. And an angel had yanked him out. Where was there room for sin and repentence anymore? He couldn't allow himself to think about the repercussions of sinning. Did those repercussions even _exist_ for him? The confessions of the Catholics; the devoutness of the Born-Agains... Or was he some sort of freakish outlier who did his own thing way under Heaven-and-Hell's radar?

Torture was exquisitely automatic now. The switchblades, the flames, the liquids and syringes and ghastly, ghost-thin scalpels... These were his Bibles and hymnal books and altars; they were the little exquisite miracles that made life-above-the-surface that much easier. Not that he was gonna admit that to Sammy, or to Cas or Bobby – or anyone, for that matter. He devoured monstrousness like the fine-wine-fluids of his Hell-bound victims. 

One tour in Hell could turn man into monster – or at least, man into less-of-a-man. Dean wasn't sure which he was yet: monster, or just less-than-man.

What he was _not_  was any full representation of humanity. He knew that, for absolute sure. Could stake his own life on it. Granted, his own life – which technically was another word for 'soul' – had been tossed into the Pit (capital Pee 'Pit') and mangled, and fucked with, and made to wreak havoc on other wretched souls like his own. So the cycle cycled back to his usual hypothesis – whatever he was, it wasn't human. Not completely. 

He felt sick to his stomach thinking about it. It was almost a blessing, to feel sick to his stomach, to feel any kind of physical sensation that was as  _visceral_ and complete as it was on Earth. Hell had a certain way of corrupting and warping physical sensation, making pain psychologically as well as physically agonizing. The demons – Alistair in particular – had believed that Hell's physical sensations were somehow more tortuous beause they were linked to the psychological, because they made dreams into nightmares and aches into emotions. Dean begged to differ. The pure, crystallized, and compartmentalized  _physical_ sensations of pain that he felt on the solid bare Earth – _they_ were what got under his fingernails, like sharp-edged barnacles under the rotted planks of a ship's belly. The physical and earthly was beautiful and bare and animal. The Hellish was abstracted and ghostly and fleeting. 

He realized it now – he realized that he'd staggered off the rack and tortured souls because he had been searching for a Hellish emotion that could come even  _somewhat_ close to Earthly pain. He had tickled the nerve endings of his spirit. He had tugged on the heartstrings of the spectral.

And... nothing. He had found nothing. Soul after soul after soul had bent to the will of his bullwhip – the souls of men and women, children and the elderly – and none of them had given him the faintest whiff of humanity.

That was the freakiest thing about Hell – that utter lack of any soul's ability to grasp, even vaguely, its own humanity. Humanity was a slippery bar of soap; drop it in Hell's shower and your ass was done for.

Remarkable, too,  that (pretty much uncoincedentally) the most grievous sins of Earthly beings – rape, torture, murder – disconnected the soul from its humanity in the same way that a tour in Hell did.

Dean knew all this because here he was, slashing into the neck of demon on Christmas Fucking Day... and he didn't feel a damn thing. No regret, no fear, no pain. 

It was agony. It was  _Earthly_ agony. And that, to him, was the best Christmas gift he could've asked for. 

He should have known how sweet it would've been.

He had giftwrapped it himself, after all.

 


	16. You Better Watch Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for purple_carpets's Dean centric h/c wish list at hoodie_time. 
> 
> "It’s Christmas and Dean is hurt and high on painkillers and decides that Bobby is Santa Claus." Dean winds up asking "Santa" for something that, sadly, is far, far out of Bobby's reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see chapters 1 or 2 for a **disclaimer** for other authors and a note on **spoilers** , or the lack thereof.
> 
>  **Warning** for this chapter, for some potential tear-provoking material about pre-series character death (AKA Winchester feels).
> 
> Enjoy!

 

  
_I'm walkin' through the town square,_  
 _Singin' Christmas carols to myself._  
 _It's so lonely, and it's cold,_  
 _And I cannot feel my toes,_  
 _But it feels more like I'm burnin' in Hell..._

Diamond Rugs, "Christmas in a Chinese Restaurant"

 

 

  
_**December 16th – You Better Watch Out** _   


__

After trying at least eighty times to reboot the external 4G connection on his laptop – a Christmas present to himself – Sam finally got Pandora working and set it to the holiday station... The "light jazz" holiday station, to be exact. The music emanating from the speakers was of the genre Dean had termed "pussy music." Sam didn't know whether that meant "music  _for_  pussies" or "music that helped you  _get_ pussy." Dean seemed to use the phrase with both connotations, so it was anyone's guess as to what it actually meant.  
  
Sam would've been fine playing any old thing, but this Christmas he figured he should stick with lighter fare. After all, Dean was sprawled on Bobby's couch like their own drugged up Humpty-Dumpty, post- wall mishap and pre- "All the king's men": bruised skull, cracked ribs, splintered wrist, busted hand, et cetera, et cetera. Dean had won his multiple fractures by picking Door Number Two on "Wheel of Fortune: Getting-Thrown-Into-China-Cabinets-By-Ghosts Edition." The meds were keeping the elder Winchester floating in what everyone in the biz called, ironically, "Hunters' Heaven" – the lovely humming anesthetized dreamland ruled by King Vicodin and Queen Morphine, with Prince Hydrocodone and Duchess Delaudid in supporting roles. Dean was sporting a cast on his left arm all the way up past his elbow, a series of bandages crisscrossing his torso, a bright white swath circling his head, and a melée of prescription drugs dancing through his arteries. Given all the extra chemicals at work in Dean's noggin, Sam figured that Chuck Berry riffing on "Run, Run, Rudolph" wouldn't be ideal at the moment.  
  
The younger hunter had driven Dean home from the hospital about nine hours ago. And good riddance. Christmas Eve Day at Sioux Falls General had felt like it'd been sampled from a  _Twilight Zone_  episode. All the doctors and nurses had been extra cheerful, overcompensating for the family Christmas rituals that folks in medical emergencies couldn't perform. The milk and cookies left out for Santa were replaced by MRI scans and intravenous fluids. Each "present under the tree" came in the form of another steady, regular beep from Dean's heart monitor – another beep telling Sam that his older brother was going to be alright. The sugar plums and candy canes were the bandages and meds, and all the little creature comforts the hospital doled out to families stranded in the limbo of waiting for their ill loved one to crack his eyes open and correctly guess the number of fingers the concerned resident was holding up.   
  
When Dean had finally gotten that number right – (it had taken him at least three tries and a handful of brain scans, the poor bastard) – Sam and Bobby had unplugged Dean's IVs and wheeled his ass out to the Impala so they wouldn't have to deal with any pesky discharge papers. The car served as a sort of "reverse ambulance," complete with a black leather gurney and a classic rock siren. Dean was transferred to Singer Salvage Yard General, where the Christmas morning sunrise, in all its snowy glory, had just greeted his medicated mind.  
  
Sam hadn't expected the light jazz Christmas station to wake Dean up – but no sooner had Ella Fitzgerald's voice started streaming from the laptop speakers than Dean had opened his bleary, bloodshot eyes and started babbling.  
  
"M'rry Chris'm's, S'mmy..." Dean grurmurmbled (one of Sam's new terms for the way his older brother talked while on morphine). Sam was honestly shocked that Dean had remembered it was Christmas... Then again, Dean had probably been thinking about the impending holiday since before he was laid up. It wasn't like the older hunter to miss out on an excuse to celebrate.  
  
"Merry Christmas, Dean," Sam replied with a tense smile. He moved to sit down in the chair he'd put next to Dean's spot on the couch. "How're you feeling?"  
  
"L'ke a damn king..." slurred Dean. He raised his eyebrows a little under the thick white bandages and let them fall again, trying to judge how many meds he was on based on how much control he had over his face. He squinted, smiled, and hypothesized, "H'nters' Heav'n, huh?"  
  
"Uh... Pretty much," said Sam, trying to cram a thermometer under Dean's armpit. "Take it easy, okay? You got busted up pretty bad yesterday. Concussion, some broken bones... Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you're not in the world's best shape."  
  
"Awwww man," Dean mused glumly, glaring at the thermometer in apparent disillusionment, "yesterday as in,  _Chr'sm's_   _Eve_  yes'erday...? Man, thar r'lly blowwwwzz..."  
  
"Uh, yeah..." said Sam, shaking out the glass tube, "I guess it does... No fever though, so that's good. Couple weeks spent horizontal, and you should be back in business-"  
  
"Sonofa _bitch_ ," Dean murmured suddenly, urgently. His eyes were focussed intently (or, as intently as very medicated eyes  _could_ focus) on something over Sam's shoulder.  
  
"Dean, what is it?" Sam said, laying a hand on his brother's chest.  
  
"S'mmy... Sweet mother a'god,  _look_." Dean's irises were glazed with pain and dope and... Sam couldn't think of another word for it besides  _awe_.  
  
" _What_ , Dean?" Sam was beginning to have second thoughts about removing Dean from the hospital... until he heard the older hunter say:  
  
" _Santa_  Claus, S'mmy..."  
  
Sam turned around to judge the accuracy of Dean's assumption... And he tried very, very hard not to burst into laughter.  
  
"Dean...?" he chortled.  
  
Dean attempted to sit up, grimacing and blanching at the pain in his injured ribcage, but clearly desperate to communicate his findings.   
  
"Swear t'god, Sam, he's...  _right_... b'hind ya..."  
  
"Dean, seriously..." Sam choked, trying to get his brother to lie back down on the couch cushions.  
  
"He's all...  _round_  in th'middle, and he's got a goddamn  _beard_  'n' everythin'..." Dean's greenish pupils were wide with wonder, and delirium... And they were wet with what Sam thought might be tears of Vicodin-and-Christmas-induced joy. "Dad was so  _wrong_  about h'm not bein' real, S'mmy," Dean gasped, a sloppy smile spreading across his pale, bruised, freckled face. "S'nta's  _here..._ Dammit, he's  _here!_  It's a goddamn  _Chri'stm's mir'cle!_ "  
  
"Dean..." chuckled Sam sadly, "I... uh... I really hate to break it to you... But..."  
  
"But  _what_...?" Dean suddenly looked frightened, guilty, his bandaged brow breaking into a cold sweat. "S'mmy, tell me we're n't gettin'  _coal_  in our damn stockins... I couldn't handle it –  _please_ , Sam..."  
  
"No!" Sam reassured Dean quickly, "Nonono... Dean... Sorry but... It's just that... That's..." He took a deep breath, shook his head, and finished: "That's not Santa."  
  
"What...?" Dean whispered, looking the very definition of crestfallen.  
  
"It's  _Bobby,_ " Sam said.  
  
"Bo..." Dean spluttered, squinting, face flashing unhealthy shades of green and white, " _Bobby_...? Bobby  _Singer_...?"   
  
"Boy," Bobby growled directly at Dean, his face grim as the grave, "I dunno what  _harebrained_ accusations yer brother's tryin' to make here..." (and here, he aimed a wink at Sam), "but if he  _ever_  tries t'say I ain't Santa again, I'll send my best reindeer out to  _trample_  his ass."   
  
Bobby pointed a strict finger at the younger Winchester and said, rigid and gruff, "Y' _hear_ _?_ "  
  
Sam, feigning fear, nodded speedily and replied, "Yes, sir, Santa... er...  _Mister Claus._  Promise. Cross my heart."  
  
" _Good_ ," Bobby said with Santa-tastic finality. "Now Dean," he continued with the ghost of a smile, "what was it again that you wanted for Christmas? I got a little sidetracked this year, I'll admit – (Rudolph got into my whiskey stash again, the sonofoabitch) – but I  _promise_  ya, I can have your gift here within the hour."  
  
"Oh..." Dean murmured, his eyes suddenly downcast, "Um... are y'sure...?"  
  
"Cross my heart," Bobby replied with a proud grin, hands on his hips.  
  
"Then," Dean said, his pallid and woozy face throwing off something akin to hope, "I'd... uh... um... I'd love it if you..."  
  
"It's okay, Dean," Sam encouraged, forcing out a smile even though he was afraid of what Dean might say. "Tell him what you want."  
  
Dean shrugged, and frowned at the pain the shrug caused. He sighed shakily, smiled a warbled, watery smile, and said:  
  
"I'd... like to have my mom back... if that's okay."  
  
The moment that followed was so silent, Sam thought he could hear the snow falling outside.  
  
Bobby tried to keep his face from collapsing in grief. Sam turned away from Dean so his older brother wouldn't see his unexpected and unchecked tears.  
  
"Wha'...?" Dean murmured, sensing the change in the atmosphere, his voice starting to break... "Wha' did I say..? S'nta...?"  
  
"It's okay..." croaked Bobby, "Just... go to sleep for now Dean... Santa can't work while you're awake, y'know..."  
  
"Oh..." Dean said with a faint smile. "Oh right... alm'st f'rgot..." He closed his eyes, still smiling, and curled into himself on the couch, wincing slightly in spite of the meds. "S'mmy will leave ya some milk 'n' cookies... won't ya, Sam...?"  
  
Sam pulled the comforter up over Dean's shoulders, tears streaming down his face, remembering that their mom had told Dean about the 'milk and cookies' tradition long ago – and that Dean had told little Sammy about it during their third Christmas Eve after Mary had died. "Sure, Dean," Sam said. "'Course I'll leave the milk and cookies."  
  
Bobby and Sam sat at Dean's side the rest of the day and night, watching his chest rise and fall... fall like the snow tumbling down outside the study window... fall like the final notes of Nat King Cole's "The Christmas Song."  
  
When Dean woke up the next morning, he didn't recall asking Santa Claus for a single thing.  
  
Sam checked Dean's temperature, distributed his brother's meds, and breathed a long, long sigh of relief.  
  
That night, without telling Dean, Sam put a plate of cookies and a glass of milk on Bobby's snow-coated doorstep.  
  
Just in case.

 

 

__


End file.
